


Ten Years

by notwit



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Gen, Vignette
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1144821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwit/pseuds/notwit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short vignettes of moments unseen in the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Years

"I ain't gonna leave you, Mikey!"

It was an hour later. Trevor was focused on surviving, that’s all that mattered now. He had numbed himself so that he could get out alive. Michael and Brad would be fine, they had to be fine. And he had to escape so that he could then break out his two running buddies—his two  _friends_ —when the heat died down.

It was a day later. The failed job was all over the news.

It was a week later and Trevor found himself stumbling through a bar in a drunken stupor, looking to pick a fight with someone he wouldn’t stand a chance against. As a fist collided with his jaw, there was a miniscule moment of peace, knowing that he deserved this for letting Michael die.

It was a month later. Everything was a haze of booze and drugs and fighting. He didn’t even remember why he was so sad and that’s the way he wanted to keep it.

It was a year later and Trevor was angry. No, he was furious. He was beyond fury. He no longer picked fights with people he knew he couldn’t take, he picked fights with everyone and many times, he didn’t stop until his opponent was no longer breathing.

It was three years later. Trevor was still angry. His left arm ached, fresh ink stained his skin in honor of his fallen brother. When he looked at it, his anger dissipated momentarily and sadness returned.

It was five years later and Trevor would like to say that he’s moved on. The heat had died down and he finally settled down in Sandy Shores, a beautiful, drug and hillbilly filled desert. He felt right at home. He had started up a new business, called it “Trevor Philips Enterprises”. Or Incorporated. Conglomerate? All of them sounded so nice, he would often switch it up, call it whatever felt right in the moment. He had found new partners. He’d like to say that he’s moved on, but he still sees ghosts in his dreams.

It was ten years later. It seems that the ghost wasn’t just in his dreams.


	2. Tattoos

"Haven’t seen this one before, T."

Michael tugs Trevor’s left sleeve upwards slightly, but quickly lets go before the other man could even pull away. Who knew what the residue on his shirt was from.

"Keep your fuckin’ hands to yourself,  _Mikey_.”

Michael rolls his eyes at the snap, particularly at the emphasis on Trevor’s oh-so-loving nickname.

"Come on, man. You don’t seem to care about showing off any of your other tattoos…or anything else, for that matter," he states, his voice becoming quiet and more of a mutter to himself at the end of his complaint.

A moment passes, Michael watches Trevor expectantly, his gaze returned by an intense glare. Finally, there’s a growl hidden beneath a grumble and T turns slightly, pulling his sleeve up so Michael and see the ink.

Another moment passes. Michael’s gaze has softened, his smirk faded into a frown.

"I was thinking about getting it removed, seeing as it’s really just a waste of space on my arm now," Trevor forced a quiet chuckle, looking anywhere but at Michael, a distant look in his eyes and perhaps even a bit of embarrassment.

Michael says nothing. He simply reaches and pulls Trevor’s sleeve back down and gives his shoulder a small pat.

They share a glance that says more than enough to dissolve the moment and soon enough the subject is thrown as far as it could be into another direction.


	3. Chef

Trevor was impressed.

At this point in his life, he was no longer shocked by the amount of damage a grenade or two could do to the human body. The carnage didn't phase him, even the smell no longer bothered him. Honestly, as he looked at the useless limbs scattered around him, he found himself growing hungry. Sadly, this meat wouldn't be best for a stew after what it had been through.

The newbie had already begun lugging the larger chunks of meat into the back of the Bohdi.

Trevor had taken to calling the new guy "Chef". He had taken to it because he hadn't bothered to actually learn the man's actual name and Chef hadn't exactly complained about it. He seemed reliable enough and he was actually quite good when it came to handling a gun. He was also an excellent meth chef, hence the nickname "Chef".

And he didn't mind picking up and tossing around chunks of human flesh, which was definitely a bonus.

Trevor was indeed impressed with the newbie.

Half an hour and a hit later, the two were gunning for the desert, looking for the prime location for burying human remains. With Trevor keyed up and talkative, the ride was filled with him rambling and ranting on about anything and everything. Chef merely listened. No annoying and unnecessary comments like he would get from Wade or derailing into conspiracy theories like he would get from Ron. No, Chef remained quiet, only speaking when prompted to and he seemed genuinely interested in the rambles. Trevor appreciated that.

"Take that shovel and start digging, and don't get lazy! We don't need coyotes coming around and digging these fuckers up."

"Got it."

A simple, yet effective reply. God, if Chef were a woman, he would be in love. Or lust. Actually, when it came to lust, it didn't matter that he was a man. But! If he were a woman, he would definitely be  _incredibly_  attracted to Chef in that moment.

Trevor shook the thoughts away, reminding himself that there was a job to be done.

The high from the meth that Chef had brought along as a sample of his work carried him through the laborious task of digging. Heaving dirt in the middle of the desert under a burning sun was not exactly how he wanted to spend his day, but business had to be taken care of, and with the help of Chef, it took a little under an hour to finish with all of the graves.

The two men now took a much needed break, both leaning against the Bohdi, Trevor with his head lolled back, eyes clothes, enjoying the moment of peace after a day's hard work. Chef leaned back a foot or so away from him. Far enough to show respect to Trevor's personal space, but close enough that it was obvious that he wasn't as terrified of the man as most people.

In fact, he found Trevor incredibly interesting. A bit...charming, actually, in his own way. He had quite enjoyed the day, the rush of the heist, listening to Trevor's ranting. Now, he just hoped that this "interview" had gone well enough for T to keep him around.

As if on cue, Trevor finally straightened up, turning to Chef and clapping his hands together.

"You're hired!"


End file.
